Page 81 of Beneath the Thorned Crown

I feel Dominic’s absence, sharp and hollow. He’s gone, and I have no idea what to do with myself. The space around me feels like a tomb, an echo chamber where my thoughts bounce endlessly, reminding me of all the things that have happened, all the things I’m still too afraid to face.

I thought I had a handle on things. I had a plan. But now, it feels like that plan was nothing more than a fragile illusion, shattered by everything that’s unfolded between Dominic and me. The connection that once seemed so certain is now fractured beyond repair, and I'm left here, clinging to nothing but confusion.

My hand clenches around my phone. It’s the only thing I have left—my only tether to the outside world, to someone who might be able to make sense of any of this. I dial Demitri’s number again, my finger trembling slightly as I hit the button. I’ve already tried twice, and my call went straight to voicemail. I don’t know if he’ll answer. But I have no one else to turn to.

I press the phone to my ear and wait. The ringing sound stretches on, each chime cutting through the quiet, reminding me how desperately alone I am in this moment. My breath feels shallow, my chest tightening with each passing second.

Come on, Demitri. Please, answer.

My pulse quickens as I wait, my anxiety building like a pressure cooker about to burst. I just need some kind of reassurance that I’m not lost, that I’m not slipping further into this abyss of uncertainty.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, the phone clicks. I suck in a breath, relief flooding my chest.

But then, just as quickly, it all crashes.

The sharp ring of the doorbell slices through me. My heart skips a beat, and my breath catches in my throat. It’s him. It has to be Demitri. He must’ve seen my missed calls. I’ve barely registered the thought when I scramble to my feet, the pulse of my heartbeat thumping in my ears, louder than the silence had been just moments ago.

My legs are shaky beneath me, the strain of the day pressing down on my shoulders. As I move toward the door, my thoughts are a blur, a mess of anticipation and fear. My hand shakes as I reach for the doorknob.

Please, let it be Demitri.

I open the door without hesitation, a sense of relief flooding me, but it’s short-lived.

When I look up, my stomach drops, a sharp pang of dread racing through me. It’s not Demitri standing there. It’s Samuel.

Samuel Delgado.

The sight of him sends a wave of nausea spiraling through me. My breath hitches, and I freeze in place, the door half-open, my body rigid. He’s here. In my apartment. His presence fillsthe doorway, looming over me like a storm waiting to break. His dark suit is immaculate, his broad shoulders filling the frame like a shadow too large for the space. His eyes—merciless, sharp—lock onto mine with a predatory gleam that makes my stomach twist.

I want to shut the door. I want to lock myself away from him, hide, escape. But his hand is there, faster than I can react, shooting out to stop the door with an almost casual ease.

His smile is slow, smug, like he’s amused by my panic. It’s the same smile that haunts my nightmares, the one that makes me question how deep this man’s cruelty goes.

"Now, now, muñeca," he purrs, his voice smooth, condescending. "Is that any way to treat a guest?"

My throat goes dry, and I feel the air in my lungs constrict as I stumble backward, away from him. Every inch of me wants to run, to lock myself in the bathroom or under the bed or anywhere that can offer even a shred of safety. But I can’t. I can’t seem to move. My legs are frozen, my breath coming in shallow gasps.

“What do you want?” My voice trembles as the words escape me, weak and uncertain.

Samuel steps into the apartment, his presence swallowing the air around us. His eyes move over the space, and I feel a sickening sense of violation, as though he’s inspecting my life, taking inventory of everything I’ve tried to hold onto. His gaze lingers too long on the paintings I’ve left behind, on the trinkets and broken mementos of my past. Everything feels too exposed, too vulnerable.

“Not much of a home, is it?” he muses, his voice casual, as though he’s commenting on the weather. “Then again, you were living with Castellano, weren’t you?”

The mention of Dominic’s name sends a bolt of pain through me, sharp and unexpected. It hits me like a punch to the stomach, and I want to collapse. I want to scream, to tell him to leave, to stop using Dominic’s name to manipulate me. But I stay silent, my body rigid. The ache in my chest is unbearable, the confusion, the doubt, swirling in my mind like a storm I can’t escape.

Samuel’s voice interrupts my spiraling thoughts, dripping with mock sympathy as he sighs theatrically. He drops onto the couch, his posture too casual, too comfortable—as though he’s been here a thousand times before.

“Sit,” he commands, a slight edge in his voice. “I’m not going to bite.”

I don’t move. I can’t. Every fiber of my being is telling me to refuse, to stand my ground, to maintain some semblance of control over this situation. But I can’t help the tremble that runs through my hands as I clutch them at my sides. My heart is pounding so loudly I can barely hear my own thoughts.

“I’ll stand,” I reply, my voice as steady as I can manage, though the words feel foreign on my tongue.

Samuel’s smirk deepens. It’s almost pitying. “Don’t be rude, cariño,” he drawls, a venomous sweetness curling in his words.

I dig my heels into the ground, unwilling to give him any satisfaction. I refuse to back down. Not for him. Not for anyone.

His eyes flick to mine, narrowing, studying me as though he’s deciding what to do next. He sighs, a sound thick with impatience and something darker. “Suit yourself,” he mutters, his tone dripping with disdain.

---